"Oh, girls, she calls him H. R., too!" exclaimed Marion.
Feeling herself one of a multitude made Grace feel a mere human being.
Created in the image of God, each of them naturally desires to feel like
a goddess.
"I do not call him H. R.," said Grace, coldly.
"It is more important to know what he calls her," observed the wise one.
Grace remembered what H. R. had called her. She felt herself blushing
with anger. Truly, the gods were kind to H. R.
"Coming back to our muttons, are you going to introduce us?" asked Ethel
Vandergilt.
"I'm not going to have anything to do with the affair," said Grace,
decisively.
"Aren't you?" said the wise one. It barely missed being a sneer.
"Why not?" asked Ethel. She was the best-gowned woman in the United
States. And she was _ex-officio hors concours_.
Grace Goodchild felt the stare of twenty pairs of eyes of differing
degrees of brightness, but of the same degree of unbelief. They
irritated her by flattering her. No woman can concentrate when watched
by other women. Grace, therefore, was compelled to live up to the role
which society had assigned to her, whether she liked it or not.
When you tell a man he is wise and ask for advice, he looks as wise as
he can and answers ambiguously. When you tell a woman you don't believe
her she indignantly tells you the truth.
"One of the reasons"--she spoke very sweetly--"is that he said my
friends would ask me to do it but he did not wish me to add to his
troubles."
The girls were listening with their very souls, for this was inside
news.